The Guest
by talktoten
Summary: Klaine Never Met!AU. In the middle of New York, Kurt saves the life of one of Blaine's friends, and in doing so misses his flight back home. Now he has nowhere to stay, so the celebrity Blaine Anderson opens up his home. T for later chapters. TW for mentions of non-con (not between Klaine, obviously). Read and review!
1. Chapter 1

It was an ordinary trip on the subway, as far as Kurt Hummel was concerned. A Styrofoam cup of a bed-and-breakfast joint's best shot at a non-fat mocha doing its best to spill on everybody around him, a gloved hand reluctantly in the same place as a thousand other sweaty guys' hands around a wrist-strap to stay upright – he'd been flipping through his phone idly, swiping through photos of his old highschool Glee Club with a nostalgic smile. Which was about as far as smiles went, really, in the parts of New York he'd seen. People missing what they had left behind to try to make it here.

Kurt, of course, had only been there for the musicals on Broadway and he had most certainly **_not_** tried for every role available (including, but not limited to, the lovely Glinda), only to be rejected. It was just a week-long stay. A fantasy. A sight-seeing trip to New York, New York, which would end in his inevitable return to Ohio, which was actually precisely where he was headed right this second, if he could just catch his flight on time. (For a place referred to as a 'bed-and-breakfast joint', they _really_ weren't good at **_making sure it was breakfast._** He'd barely woken up in time for brunch, let alone _packing,_ and the flight left at 12:30.)

The subway screeched to a stop. The doors slid open. Kurt chanced a disinterested glance up, at least now used to strange voyagers of this particular metro yelling at him for making eye contact, and watched a couple of men step aboard – they were laughing, loudly, over some joke he had not heard. Looked nice enough; their presence in the very end carriage – where next to nobody bothered to walk, meaning it was now empty, save for the three of them - could have been put down to anything. Secret celebrity, for instance. The overlarge sunglasses certainly weren't doing anything to suggest otherwise, but Kurt had frankly been disappointed to find light-sensitive people beneath his dramatic, Scooby-Doo-esque revelations of their secret identity _too many_ times in the course of the past week. Or worse, blind.

They threw a cursory glance at him. He threw a polite smile in their direction and returned to his phone; it was 12:21, and his stop was still three away. He'd have to _run_ to catch his flight. Miss it and he'd never hear the end of it, either. Plane tickets were _expensive_ and everybody who knew Kurt Hummel knew he wanted to live here, at least half of them would think he was running away-

"Whoa! Whoa – hey, I've got you. Wes? You okay?"

A sudden movement caught Kurt's eye; one of the men – the one talking – had _had_ to move quickly in order to catch his friend. Wes slumped forward, not involuntarily but maybe not entirely aware; for a split second Kurt was sure he must have just lost his balance, he'd done so himself on the subway his first time 'round… but he knew that look. Kurt had trained in First Aid following his father's heart attack: that face was the one the people in the stock photos made. At the time he'd thought the instant paling, the panic mingled with confusion, the sheen of sweat – at the time he'd though it was just a re-enactment. Not what it actually looked like.

"Wes?"

"My arm hurts," Wes slurred, almost unintelligibly.

As it turned out, that was _precisely_ what heart attacks looked like. "Get him on the platform," he said, with enough authority in his voice that it surprised him – Wes's friend looked up, startled:

"What?"

But the train was screeching to a stop for a second time and Kurt did not have time to repeat himself. Instead, quite matter-of-factly, he stalked forward and seized Wes's legs, and by some miracle the other man seemed to have caught up to what Kurt had said – the doors slid open and in a movement more coordinated than he'd've thought it could be, they were outside. Kurt helped to lay Wes down.

"Whazzapening?" the young man mumbled, peering up at Kurt, who hesitated. There was no moral guide on… "Am I dying?" Wes asked, with a hint of disbelief in his voice, but in that very same moment his eyes rolled back into his head. His chest was still.

"He's not breathing," Kurt mumbled to himself.

"Oh my god," said Wes's friend, "Oh my god, is he-?"

And it was probably because the other man could not bring himself to say the word that Kurt was reminded of just what was at stake here: a life. A very real, very proper life, hanging in the balance – he thrust his hand back into his pocket for his phone and threw it to the other man. "He's not. He won't, I'll help him. But I need you to call 911 and _tell me when the ambulance will be here_. We're at Warbler Station, the north side." This was something he had learned: in an emergency, people tended to forget minor details like the fact they could read, meaning they often forgot where they were. That, and they also had a peculiar habit of running off after being told to call an ambulance without actually calling one; knowing when it would arrive meant knowing it would arrive at all. Unthinkingly, he ripped Wes's shirt open. An Alexander McQueen, no less, though Kurt was sure the sin against fashion might be forgiven – he started chest compressions. Thirty beats, two breaths, repeat.

Had quite a rhythm going, for a couple of minutes there, until whats-his-face collapsed back down by Wes's side, Kurt's phone haphazardly discarded beside him.

"Oh my god, oh my god – they'll be here in three minutes, I… oh my god, I was _just talking to him_ —"

"What's your name?" _Calm down_. He did not have the hands to handle a panic attack on top of _this_.

"M—my…? Blaine." The man tore off his sunglasses and ran a hand restlessly through his untidy curls: Blaine. Blaine, he said, and in the same moment Kurt recognised him. This was _Blaine Anderson_ , the child prodigy, the teen with at least a dozen hit singles since the moment his feet hit the pavement of New York. Kurt leaned down again, two rescue breaths, not distracted: in any other circumstances, he'd've been freaking out. He'd have just sat there and said nothing but stared and forgotten those cookies in the oven or all of the things he'd rehearsed in front of a mirror, in case such an instance of bumping into a celebrity arose. Instead, he worked methodically; kept his voice low and calm. He'd already sent a bystander in search of an AED. All there was left to do was wait the next three minutes out.

"Hi, Blaine. I'm Kurt. You friend will be fine, I'm working on him right now. Listen – do you want to help?" because Kurt was already breathless with the effort of pumping someone else's heart for them, and he was losing the rhythm he was meant to be doing it to. Blaine hesitated, uncertain; not unwilling to help, by any means, judging by the way his hands immediately flew to assist before he'd even planned how to do so – but he didn't know how. That was okay. Kurt tried to offer a reassuring smile, though he was just the teensiest bit distracted by the life hanging in the balance (and god, his hair must have been awful, he could feel himself sweating with the effort of this).

"Er—what do I…?"

"Sing."

Blaine stared at him blankly. "What?"

"I need to pump to a certain beat and I can't count _and_ sing at the same time. _Row, Row, Row Your Boat_. That's the beat." There was also _Stayin' Alive_ , but given the circumstances and how unresponsive Wes happened to be at the moment, he figured they'd give that one a pass. Every second that passed without Wes breathing for himself was another second he didn't get the _right_ amount of oxygen, and that could mean brain damage or death or crippling disability or –

As if on cue, Blaine began to sing. It was the same song, the right melody, the very same tune Kurt had been struggling to remember; it was right, and he used it to ground himself. This was just someone who needed help, and he knew precisely how to do that and he was doing it _just fine_. The compressions slowed down, back to the pace they ought to have been at (when had they gotten a half beat too quick? Oh god, had that killed him?), the man he'd sent to find an AED returned empty-handed but with paramedics in tow, apparently having volunteered to show them the way… and as Kurt shifted to make room for them to take over – his arms were KILLING him – Wes arched upwards, starved for air, breathing in a deep gulp of it before rolling onto his side. Blaine gasped-sobbed.

At once, Warbler Station exploded into excited chatter, paramedics pushing in from all sides to get a chance at helping – Kurt was shoved aside and thankfully so, extracting himself from the mess with only a somewhat vague notion that the man at his feet was breathing only because he'd chosen a poor bed-and-breakfast in an even poorer suburb on the outskirts of New York. If they'd not climbed aboard at the same time they had, he wouldn't've been there. If he hadn't stopped long enough to get that awful cup of coffee (which, he realised suddenly, he must have dropped inside the subway, he didn't remember doing anything _else_ with it), then Wes – friend of Blaine Anderson – would have suffered a heart attack and collapsed on the spot and Blaine, Kurt knew, wouldn't've had the slightest clue what to do about it. Wes would be dead.

Kurt felt light-headed. All that work… his hands felt wrong, now, strangely empty, his limbs itching to do something – to HELP – except nobody seemed to need it anymore; everything was flashing lights and shouted orders and somewhere off to the side Blaine was arguing with someone ("I'm his best friend!" and "Sorry, kid, we need the space to keep him stable,") about riding in the ambulance and oh, god, even if Wes wasn't dead, that was a _long_ time to go without oxygen – would he be all right? Would he be brain damaged? Would it have been better to –

to just –

to –

a hand closed around his arm.

Somewhere in the space between knowing precisely what was going on and being affronted with so many lights and feelings and _thoughts_ he hadn't had at the time (but he wished he had), Kurt had backed himself up flat against the subway station's wall and paled, rather considerably. He startled at the unfamiliar touch, at first, purely out of surprise over the fact that he was still really _very_ corporeal and actually, completely there, and looked up to meet the eyes of one concerned Blaine Anderson. Kurt frowned at him, confused (why were his lip moving?) and then, all at once, it was like someone had turned up the volume on a radio: _speaking_. That's what Blaine was doing. Speaking. To _him_. Kurt Hummel was being spoken to by Blaine Anderson. He forced himself to listen.

"—urt? Are you okay?"

"Huh?"

"Do you want to sit down? You're shaking."

Was he? Yes. Shock, probably. He took a long, deep breath, making a conscious effort to regulate his breathing, and although it did not do anything to relieve the feeling of his stomach having been twisted into knots and run over a couple of times, it did sharpen his mind a little. This was real. He had just saved a life, for better or for worse. Someone was going to want to talk to him about it, though not now, not when they were busy finishing what they started. To his credit, Kurt managed a little nod, but it was neither convincing nor very clearly an attempt at affirmation, at all.

"How's Wes?" he asked, instead of answering Blaine's question – which led the young celebrity to frown, and Kurt realised with a jerk that the only information Blain would have had on how Wes was going to be would have come from **_him,_** and he had promised with full confidence that he'd be fine. Why had he done that? What if he was wrong?

Blaine's hand dropped away from his arm, so quickly Kurt was sure he had simply forgotten it was there until Kurt had started question-dodging. He shook his head a little, just as ambiguously as he'd nodded it.

"Sorry. I just – my dad… had a heart attack. A while back. He's living, he survived, but I just felt so useless. Even if I'd been there, I never would've… I learned CPR. Because I thought if it happened again, I wanted to know what to do, y'know? If I learnt what to do, then I'd never have to feel anybody being so - they wouldn't seem so…" lifeless. So lifeless. And he had seen Wes arch up for air and cough and splutter and become very much alive again and he'd seen it in his father, too, though in a much less dramatic way in a hospital room, but that wasn't a guarantee. When they're gone like that they're _gone_. And all Kurt had been able to do was sit there and hope against hope that he was good enough to come back for and now this time around, this time, it had been the same, except he'd **_known_** what to do and he'd done it and for at least seven minutes, there, he'd worked, and _nothing_ had happened. For at least seven minutes he'd felt someone just as lifeless. Just as cold.

Suddenly aware that his eyes were wet, he scrubbed at them with the sleeves of his knitted jumper. Today was _not_ about him. This was _not_ about his dad. And that poor man, Wes, he might never be the same again, there was no telling what would happen to him now. All Blaine could do was wait and see and Kurt had been in that position, and he knew how _terrifying_ it was, father or not.

"I get it," Blaine said. Kurt laughed.

"No – really," he insisted, "that's horrible. And not knowing what to do… I'm really glad you were here today, Kurt. Wes is breathing because of you, I can _not_ thank you enough."

"He might never be the same," Kurt confessed, quietly, because the intensity of Blaine's gaze was too much, too honest, too burningly _pure_. Yes, Wes would not be breathing without him, but that was not necessarily a good thing.

"I don't care."

The absolute certainty startled Kurt out of his self pity. Blaine didn't seem to notice, or care.

"He's my best friend. If that means I've got to make sure every single building this side of Manhattan's wheelchair-friendly then that's what I'm gonna do. You have no idea how thankful I am, Kurt. I mean it."

Of course he meant it. Because when Kurt thought about it, he'd've done the same for his dad. He'd've done the same for _any_ of his friends, for any part of the New Directions. They held gazes for a moment, warm honey on what was probably a greenish blue right now – Blaine's eyes were gorgeous. That, and absolutely nothing other than sincere. With a breathy laugh and an empty swallow, Kurt leaned his head up against the wall beside him, face turned skywards like Santa Claus for AdultsTM could offer some sort of answer.

"I missed my flight," he whispered, and this was purely a knee-jerk reaction, purely said just because it was _something_ to say and everything else, everything that would have tried to have been more meaningful, would have felt too empty. "I was headed home. I'll have to _beg_ that bed and breakfast to take me back. They gave me straight black and told me it was coffee." He hadn't a clue what he'd do about getting another flight. He had maybe $25 on him and that was it; he could get his dad to wire him something and work to pay it back, but that would take a couple of days, at least. "I'll be the next _Moondog_."

"The homeless composer?" Blaine blurted out, and even in the events of the day he took the opportunity to laugh, startled by the absurdity of Kurt's claim – "Kurt, if you need a place to stay for a couple of nights, come stay with me. I've got a guest room. It's the least I can do, it's my friend's fault you missed your flight."

It was Kurt's turn to laugh, and the way Blaine stared at him when he did it, he was certain that that was what the other man'd been aiming for, all along – but Kurt was quickly shaking his head. He could not _imagine_ what his dad would have to say about holing up with a random celebrity he'd met on the streets, not to mention the fact that wherever Blaine was staying, it was certainly a lot more expensive than what Kurt was used to: what if he broke something? "You can't just do that, Blaine. You're _Blaine Anderson_ , your friend's just had a _heart_ attack. You've got _enough_ going on without me under your feet—"

"I insist," Blaine interrupted, though his voice was as equally as warm as his eyes. Both eyebrows raised, imploring; Kurt wondered if this was his shot at a _puppy-dog look_. "I'll be following Wes to the hospital once they leave, anyway –" they were still busy making sure they could move him over lumps and bumps without destabilising him – "it's right on the way there. Come on, let me make it up to you, _please_."

Kurt hesitated; seemed to fight (and best) himself in some internal debate; nodded, once. There was not much to be said for the intimidation factor when it came to Blaine, and it was certainly better than not having a roof over his head, at all. "Which train should we take?"

Blaine rolled his eyes. "C'mon," he said. He grabbed Kurt by the hand and dragged him casually in the direction of the taxi rank.

"I know a shortcut."

* * *

 **A/N: Don't forget to leave a review, guys~ I haven't written fanfiction in a long while, but I wanted to get this one out there. All I need is a little encouragement and I'll next-fanfiction-chapter on _up_ this establishment. :) **


	2. Chapter 2

As it turned out, Blaine Anderson lived in a surprisingly modest two-bedroom apartment on the ground floor of an (admittedly expensive-looking) complex in the middle of Manhattan. They arrived a little past one in the afternoon and, though fully intending to make his way to the hospital after Wes, Blaine did clamber out behind Kurt in order to show him inside – the taxi driver opened her mouth to protest but was quickly silenced by a fistful of twenties being thrust in her general direction, along with the instruction to _"Just wait – wait here a minute, I'll be back_." He confiscated one of Kurt's suitcases and led the way with absolute confidence; sometime during the ride over he'd slipped his sunglasses back on and, it seemed, it was for good reason, because they were not even three feet out of the taxi before the cameras started to flash.

"Oh, no," Blaine said.

"Mr Anderson! Mr Anderson, is it true your friend –"

"Over here, Mr Anderson!"

"Blaine! Blaine Anderson – who's that with him? Dave, who is that?"

"I don't know. Mr Anderson! Who's your friend?"

Kurt had never bothered to invest time into discovering where Blaine lived, but it seemed he was the only one. Half of the paparazzi population of New York seemed to be there, waiting to welcome Blaine home with a barrage of questions about the latest, riveting rumours currently ravishing the modern New Yorker's mind: was it true? Had a bizarre twist of fate really almost left Blaine a friend shorter than he had been this morning, had Blaine _really_ just watched one of his best friends collapse as his heart had stopped beating? Nobody knew for certain, yet, but if they shoved their microphones in his face hard enough, they were _sure_ he'd spill the beans. Except rather than doing that, Blaine had stopped just long enough to realise Kurt hadn't moved, and returned to put an arm around his shoulders so he could usher him forward.

"They don't even know your name – just walk through them, I'm sorry – " he muttered in a low voice, a breadth too close to Kurt's ear. He stumbled forward, dumbly, but once he'd taken the first few steps into the sea of people he began to get used to the way they parted to make way for him: this had been his fantasy. Reporters, cameras, photos, questions hurled at him in increasingly louder voices as they overlapped one another, struggling to be heard… It had to be at _most_ another few metres to the door, and the security of the place seemed to be keeping the people out of the lobby, at least. "I forgot they'd be here," Blaine told Kurt, which probably would've made him laugh (who _forgot_ they were an international celebrity?) if he'd not been too busy hurrying towards the doors. Hands grabbed at them from all sides. At least once, he unthinkingly took a microphone from someone and had to tuck it back into their pocket as he passed.

"Mr Anderson, do you have a comment?!"

"Blaine! Blaine, over here, Blaine!"

"Ignore them, Kurt, just ignore them –"

"Blair! Blair!" someone had gotten the name wrong -

"Mr Anderson, is your friend dead?!"

"Oh my _GOD,_ can you _STOP_?!" Kurt yelled, and if it hadn't been for the fact literally everybody in the area was waiting for him or Blaine to speak, he probably wouldn't've been heard above the roar of the crowd. At the outburst, though, they all fell silent; he could feel Blaine pushing at his back, trying to get him to move, muttering something under his breath. Kurt blinked around at the microphones, stunned by his own audacity.

To their credit, the reporters seemed to realise that saying or asking anything else would just stop him talking. The tense silence stretched on for maybe three seconds, in which Kurt considered precisely what he was going to do and decided that yes, it did in fact need to be done.

"He's a human being! So what if his friend had a heart attack or not, what's it to you? He's up to his eyes in your business cards and you're _drowning_ him for some vicious, _gross_ curiosity – are you really so dense you don't see how **_wrong_** this is? Wouldn't you want some _privacy_?"

"Kurt –"

"No, Blaine! Any question you've got for him right now, the answer is _no comment_. It's been a rough day, you can't take his right for privacy away from him as well. Just get out of here. All of you! Skedaddle!"

Nobody moved. Nobody breathed. Kurt became suddenly away of the fact that, while the talking had stopped, camcorders were still rolling, microphones were still listening. He hardly _knew_ Blaine Anderson and had just caused a scene for him in the middle of a media frenzy. Kurt seized the closest microphone (the reporter gave it up easily, exchanging a gleeful look with his colleagues) and looked straight down the lens of the camera that happened to share the same News logo.

 **"** ** _No goddamn comment."_**

And with that, he thrust the microphone back at its owner, seized Blaine's hand (cameras clicked wildly, at that) and walked into the hotel lobby; with every step he was feeling increasingly nauseous, aware that he had probably just given the media precisely what they had wanted. A scandal. Blaine Anderson's New Friend With A Lot Of Luggage Loses It At Reporters. It was definitely going to get him noticed, that was for certain, though having his name attached to a massive New York scandal was not going to win him any sort of favour with his future agent.

They made it as far as just-out-of-the-reporters'-eyesight before Blaine burst into laughter.

Even _with_ his best friend in hospital, that man didn't stop laughing.

"What?" Kurt asked, defensively swatting at Blaine's arm – they'd dropped hands once they'd gotten inside but the personal contact seemed to be something they were both perfectly comfortable with, and Kurt wasn't going to be drawing any boundaries. Blaine shook his head meekly, unable to answer through his mirth.

"I just – was that your _first time_?"

"Did I do something wrong?" Kurt could feel a smile creeping up on him.

"No – oh, god. I should hire you as a full-time reporter-deal-wither, that was _fantastic_. Wes won't _believe_ …" Blaine came up short. At once, he looked choked for words, utterly lost inside his worry – for a split second Kurt was certain he was going to start crying, and with that hauntingly familiar sensation of missing the last step on a staircase Kurt realised that he'd not even _thought_ of the fact Blaine must've been putting this on, that the cheeriness was charming but also utterly false, that he must be worried out of his **_mind_** about his **_friend_** … and then the look was gone. "Anyway!" Blaine had clapped a hand to Kurt's shoulder again and was now digging 'round in his pockets as he led him towards his apartment door.

"You did fantastically. It should keep them sated for a while, at any rate, and _that_ …" he pushed his door open, "is something I have yearned for since they first opened their mouths. Come in, come in. I'm gonna grab some supplies and head out again. I'll have to call his parents. Help yourself to anything – there's food, drink… I don't know how long I'll be staying there. They said it was New York-Presbyterian Hospital, right?" Blaine led the way into his home with little more than a backwards glance in Kurt's direction: now that he'd reached his own place he seemed a lot more comfortable, only now actually making plans regarding what ought to be done. He moved as he spoke, grabbing bottles of water from the fridge and fetching keys. Kurt hovered uncertainly just inside the doorway, looking around.

His first thought was that Blaine's riches were going to waste if they weren't being spent fixing the place's colour scheme. The walls were an unattractive off white and the furniture seemed to have been selected more for function than for stylistic purposes; good quality, certainly, but that chocolate brown Theodore Alexander had no business being in the same room as the admittedly luxurious purple drapes Blaine had undoubtedly found bathing in all of the money someone like _Kurt_ couldn't afford to pay for them. The air conditioner mounted on the wall kept the room at a comfortable 70 degrees. Kurt deposited his coat and hat on the hooks beside the door and slid the packed luggage under the entryway table, intending to leave it that way so as to save the effort of repacking in the morning. It had occurred to him, in the past few minutes, that he probably could've just asked Blaine to pay for an overnight stay somewhere in a decent hotel; might have been _expected_ to, in fact… but it was too late now. He shut the door behind him and joined Blaine in the small kitchenette, all stone-top counters and stainless steel appliances.

"Nice place," Kurt said, suddenly aware of the fact Blaine had been watching him take in his surroundings.

"You're a bad liar," Blaine told him, both eyebrows raised, but he didn't seem to mind; he passed Kurt one of the bottles of water he'd pulled from the fridge and Kurt took it, suddenly aware of how thirsty he was. "It does the job, though. And it's got a piano – had to beg for a ground-floor apartment, I couldn't get them to agree to carrying it up the stairs." He gestured with a nod of his head and Kurt, following his gaze, realised that this was indeed the case: a black, baby grand piano stood, unassuming, in the corner of the room that he would have thought had been dedicated to a television, the way the furniture was arranged around it.

"You play?" Kurt asked, dumbly.

"Sometimes," Blaine said, modestly. Thankfully, he did not mention the fact that Kurt had at least half of the songs Blaine had not only played, but also composed and sung, sitting at the top of his favourite playlist. Of course Blaine had a piano in his apartment – Kurt would have expected no less of him. In fact he was a little awed, now, staring at it: that was where some of his favourite top-100 songs had been composed, he was sure of it. Right on that bench at that piano in this little corner of New York. He had not been paying enough attention to remember the address and that was probably a good thing, because Kurt could not imagine walking away from this building without rushing back to see if the piano that had so enchanted America could play as well as it boasted. He'd have to try it sometime today. Probably while Blaine was out.

Blaine retrieved some sort of remote from a kitchen drawer and pressed a button – the wall beside him started moving. Kurt spun, startled, and found himself faced with a mirror… except the Kurt in the mirror was moving when he didn't. Film, he realised. It was film of _him_. Blaine pressed another button, and the TV was no longer on mute.

"… one thing for sure: if you travel with the stars, prepare to get burned," a woman he didn't recognise was yelling into a microphone – the very same microphone he'd used to declare they had no comment. Her voice was grating. "Wes Warbler, Mr Anderson's self-proclaimed best friend, today collapsed of a suspected _heart attack_ while in Anderson's company – Anderson, however, has just been seen entering his apartment complex holding the hand of another young man known only as _Kurt._ Is Wes Warbler in for a platonic heartbreak? Has his position as Best Friend already been filled – and hasn't his heart had enough?

"This is Rita S. Keyta reporting live from downtown Manhattan. Updates –"

Blaine hit the button again, and the TV fell back into silence. The remote clattered to the counter and Kurt turned back around just in time to see a frustrated hand shoot through his hair, tugging at the curls. Angry, Kurt thought. Blaine was angry, because as hilarious as Kurt had apparently been, being seen with Blaine at **_all_** had given them reason to make up some rubbish news story to tug at the gullible's heartstrings.

"It's all garbage," Kurt ventured, "you won't ever see me again after tomorrow, anyone with half a brain knows Rita's just full of –"

"I know!" It was yelled. They stared at each for a moment – a long moment – and then Blaine shook his head and licked his lips, righting himself: "I know, Kurt. I'm sorry, I just… I'm so worried. You're right, I don't need the media all over this on top of everything. Make yourself at home, okay? I've got to go. Guest bedroom's the second door on the right, bathroom's the first. Don't wait up." He grabbed his keys from the counter, though of course there was a taxi waiting right outside for him. The hurriedness of his movements gave Kurt the distinct impression that this was Blaine's own unique form of _running away_. He made for the door.

"Blaine!" Kurt called.

Blaine stopped in the doorway. He did not turn around.

"Good luck. For Wes. I really hope he's okay."

The head of curls nodded in acknowledgment without turning around, and the door clicked closed. Kurt was left alone.

* * *

If he had wanted to, Kurt was sure, he could have looted that apartment for tens of thousands of dollars before Blaine got back. The couch alone had to be worth thousands and the **_piano_** , good lord, he didn't even want to _think_ about it. But it was because he _had_ thought about just how much something like that might cost that Kurt had elected to stay away from it: once Blaine had left he'd taken the liberty of making himself a salad from the highly inventive (this was an adjective he'd settled on after a good few minutes of thought) selection of vegetables and flora in Blaine's fridge by way of a late lunch, and was just now finishing his bathroom routine. Usually he'd've waited until just before bed for the skincare regime and full-on spa treatment, but in this case it was probably better to avoid demanding full control of the bathroom facilities over a celebrity who had been gracious enough to host him for the night.

Which was another thing, too. Now that he was left alone, Kurt could hardly believe it was real.

He'd called Mercedes, of course, the moment Blaine had left, and the two of them had spent some time trying to predict the other's movements because they both kept calling each other at precisely the same time: Mercedes had seen his face on TV. Beside _Blaine Anderson's_ face. She did not hesitate to demand an explanation, and she quickly received one in _full_ ; Kurt spared her none of the details. She proved to be a very good audience, gasping and shrieking at all the right parts of the story.

One Disney film later (he'd chosen _Mulan_ – General Shang was _easy_ on the eyes), Kurt checked his watch: 8:30PM. In all honesty he really ought to sleep soon if he wanted to get to the airport early tomorrow – he'd have to speak with the airline and see if they could give him a seat on a later flight by virtue of the good publicity they'd get out of it; airlines didn't often advertise _miss a flight to save a life? Fly home free the next day!,_ so it would at least make for a unique billboard. He pushed himself to his feet and even got so far as halfway across the room before he stopped, halfway towards the second door on the right, halfway towards the room _without_ a baby grand piano in it.

But he had to, didn't he?

If he left here without playing it, just once, he would never forgive himself. He hadn't even told Mercedes about it because _she'd_ never forgive him. Kurt stared at the piano stool. It looked comfortable. He'd just sit down on it, just feel what it was like to sit there, to know how the ivory keys felt beneath his fingertips. And then, since he was there anyway, he would play a note. Just one. He pressed down on middle C and listened to it echo around the room; the acoustics in here were _fantastic_. How had he not noticed that until now?

Another. He'd play another note. He moved up to a G.

"One song," he whispered aloud to himself, unable to resist. He played the first chord without knowing what song it was going to be, but once he'd played it he realised of _course_ it would be that. It was right. Kurt Hummel opened his mouth, and got lost in the music.

 _"When I find myself in times of trouble  
Mother Mary comes to me  
speaking words of wisdom,_  
 _"Let it be."  
And in my hour of darkness  
she is standin', right in front of me  
speaking words of wisdom,  
"Let it be."_

 _And when the broken-hearted people_  
 _Living in the world agree_  
 _There will be an answer, let it be_  
 _For though they may be parted_  
 _There is still a chance that they will see_  
 _There will be an answer, let it be_

 _Let it be, let it be_  
 _Let it be, let it be_  
 _Yeah, there will be an answer, let it be_  
 _Let it be, let it be_  
 _Let it be, let it be_

 _Whisper words of wisdom, let it be_

 _Let it be, let it be_  
 _Ah, let it be, yeah, let it be_  
 _Whisper words of wisdom, let it be…"_

But here Kurt closed his mouth, preferring to just listen to the song, to just play the notes and hear them reverberate just _so_ , just perfectly, just because for all of Blaine Anderson's failings in interior design, that kid **_really_** knew his music. His fingers found the keys and just as the next lines opened, a voice chimed in to finish the song – but it most certainly wasn't his.

 _"And when the night is cloudy  
There is still a light that shines on me  
Shine on until tomorrow, let it be  
I wake up to the sound of music,  
Mother Mary comes to me  
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be_

 _Let it be, let it be_  
 _Let it be, yeah, let it be_  
 _Oh, there will be an answer, let it be_  
 _Let it be, let it be_  
 _Let it be, yeah, let it be_  
 _Whisper words of wisdom, let it be."_

The last note hung in the air. Kurt had stopped breathing.

He knew that voice. Of course he did, it was the one with its own dedicated session on his iPod. And Blaine must have opened the door without him hearing – how long had he been standing there? Had he heard Kurt sing? Yes. If he hadn't, they wouldn't be in the middle of this long, stretched-out silence at the moment.

"Blaine," Kurt said.

"Kurt," Blaine said.

Kurt spun around, as though startled to find him there. "I didn't think you'd be –"

"Visiting hours end at 8:30."

"Oh." Kurt swallowed. He should have looked that up. Should have thought of that. "I – your piano is beautiful, I just… it was only one song, I just wanted to know what it was –"

"Your voice is _beautiful_."

If Kurt had not been watching Blaine as he said it, he might not have believed him. As it were, the very _obvious_ stunned look Blaine had fixed him with was enough to make Kurt blush right to the tips of his ears, verbal compliments or no.

"You…" Blaine Anderson liked his singing. Kurt blinked, rapidly, mind still reeling from this little revelation, and lifted a hand to straighten his hair, suddenly extremely self-conscious. "You've got good taste," is what he settled on saying, eventually. To Kurt's great relief, Blaine took only a half second to absorb this comment and then threw his head back and laughed – real, _proper_ laughter, laughter that he threw his entire body into the effort of just because he _could_. Wildly _attractive_ laughter, not to mention contagious; the moment Blaine started Kurt had joined in and there they were, two 19-year-old kids in the middle of New York playing grown up with their fantastic voices: this wasn't _famous_ and _non-famous_ , just _acquaintance_ and _other acquaintance_. Easy. Comfortable. But Kurt had never _not_ felt that way around Blaine, which was saying something, given they'd only met nine or so hours ago.

Kurt was the first to calm down – Blaine seemed to have gotten as lost in the other man's laughter as Kurt had with his. _Are you gay_? Was what Kurt wanted to ask, except that would be highly inappropriate and definitely was not what was appropriate right now. Instead, he smiled warmly.

"Wes is doing better, then?" nothing else could have put Blaine in such a good mood, he was sure.

"He's fantastic! Woke up in the ambulance on the way over, they think he'll be fine – they're keeping him a couple of days, for surveillance, but he should be going home by the end of the week. I'm not buying him another hamburger in his _life_." He paused long enough to grin a thoroughly infectious grin. "You like Mulan?"

The DVD was still sitting in its case on the kitchen counter; he'd been _planning_ to put it away, except a piano had distracted him. "Of _course_ I do," Kurt told him, "it's Disney. And the songs are _well_ within my vocal range."

Blaine pulled a face. Perfectly good reasoning, really.

"It's still early. D'you wanna watch Mulan 2?"

He had to get up early in the morning. Kurt still didn't even find himself hesitating. "Sure. D'you mind if I bake something first, though? I ate your microwave popcorn. It tasted like warm cardboard."

Blaine laughed again.

* * *

 **A/N: I wrote two chapters of this in the space of 24 hours. C'mon, guys, that was PRETTY cool. Let me know if you've got any wishes/desires for the later chapters! Otherwise please R &R, because it's 5:14AM, guys. I do so much for you people. 3 **


	3. Chapter 3

As it turned out, Blaine was the first one to fall asleep that night. It seemed to be completely unintentional; one moment they were only relaxing on the couch, admittedly much more comfortable than Kurt would've thought possible with an international celebrity-stranger-person he'd only just met, and the next Blaine's eyes had dropped and he was lightly snoring, which led Kurt to glance at the clock: 9:34AM. The guy had hardly lasted half an hour since getting home. Fortunately enough the Theodore Alexander's armrest had apparently seemed much more appealing as a pillow than Kurt's arm, which meant he could – albeit slowly – stand himself up and go in search of blankets. _A Girl Worth Fighting For_ became his blanket-searching theme music, which he hummed along to as he tugged open the linen cupboards.

He soon returned to the loungeroom with a blanket in one hand and a towel in the other. Blaine had since stretched himself out more properly on the couch, triangular brows scrunched ever-so-slightly together at the fact that his bed did not have the room to accommodate all of his legs, but that quickly relaxed: he could simply bend them. _Sleep_. Kurt tucked the blanket around him (Blaine took to it instantly, apparently colder than his peaceful sleep let on), pressed a kiss to his forehead, realised precisely what he had just done and scrubbed haphazardly at the spot with his sleeve for several seconds because that had _not_ been intentional (it was INSTINCT!), and retired to the shower. Granted, he had not been told he could _have_ one, but there was no way in hell Kurt Hummel was going to wake up in a celebrity's apartment all greasy and unclean. That, and there was even _less_ of a way in Hell that he was going to pass up his skincare regime. Gaga herself could not lead to that flawless porcelain skin's surrender. Blaine's sleepy head could deal.

By the next morning, however, it became increasingly clear that Blaine's sleepy head could _not_ deal. Kurt rose relatively early in the morning, took care of his morning regime, checked the time – 7:30am – and settled on a bowl of cereal for breakfast, seeing as the ingredients for that were things Blaine probably wouldn't even _notice_ were missing. It was only as he settled down to _eat_ it that it occurred to him that Blaine probably should have been up by now. He'd seen photos of the man out on morning runs in the city at an hour well before this, before the rest of the city was awake… but Blaine hadn't moved. Kurt would need to leave soon if he wanted to get to the airport to talk to his airline before the rush, and he had _wanted_ to offer his thanks before he left… curious, Kurt stepped forward, bowl of cereal in hand. Was Blaine already awake, maybe? Catching up on sleep? Maybe he could wake him before he left…?

Once he had full view of the couch, Kurt wished he hadn't.

Blaine was sick.

Like, _really_ sick. There was a lovely, chunky sort of vomit decorating the Tabriz rug; sweat plastered the curls escaping from the overwhelming gel to his forehead; the man was still very deeply asleep, lips moving rapidly and without sound. His breathing was laboured.

Kurt's first instinct, upon seeing him, was to call an ambulance.

His second instinct, upon realising that his first instinct was probably a mite overdramatic when he didn't even know what was wrong with him, was to reach over the back of the couch (like hell he was walking on _that_ carpet) and to press a hand to Blaine's forehead and check his temperature, only to find it an unsurprising three billion degrees.

"Blaine?" he asked. The celebrity did not answer, which only served to concern him more – not-normal breathing and unresponsiveness probably _did_ call for an ambulance. "Blaine, can you hear me? Open your eyes." Nothing.

Kurt reached one hand down to shake Blaine's shoulder, and the other shot to the other man's fingers: "Squeeze my hand," he said, which was only a part of his First Aid training, except –

Blaine shot upright, catapulted into the waking world with wide eyes and a movement so quick it turned into a dry-retch. "Kurt?" he managed out, before he doubled over again and found the sick he'd expelled over the course of the night waiting for the addition of whatever was left in his stomach – "what -?" but Kurt shoved something relatively bucket-shaped into Blaine's hands and he made the snap decision that it could _wait_. Kurt was saying something, making some noise that was relatively soothing, but Blaine's mind was too much of a muddle to much hold onto anything other than the fact that they weren't _threats_ , so he ignored the words in favour of regaining control over the contents of his stomach. The retching turned out to be nothing more than a coughing fit. Blaine was relatively disappointed, given how much better he was certain he'd've felt if he'd managed something, but then he collapsed back onto … couch. He was on the couch.

Kurt kept saying something.

"You can't go back to sleep yet," he was saying.

Blaine was not a big fan of what Kurt was saying. He half-closed his eyes, wondering vaguely what sort of respectable caretaker would _not let_ someone so tired sleep… surely, he could just… but Kurt was tugging him upright by the arm, and even the exhausted Blaine could not sleep when sitting upright and being moved around like that.

"You can sleep soon, we've just got to get some fluids in you… I don't like your breathing. Do you think you can drink?" if he couldn't, then Blaine had the choice between stopping _losing_ fluids or going to hospital before he got overly dehydrated. Thankfully enough he nodded, weakly, so Kurt dragged him to his feet and settled him down at the kitchen counter, before going in search of something drinkable in the fridge.

"Water," Blaine said.

"You won't keep it down… do you have any sports drinks? Hydralyte?" Kurt was searching through the bottles of water and milk and orange juice, both eyebrows raised like this might help him spot what he was looking for. Sports drinks weren't _all_ good for dehydration, but at the very least it was something that'd _stay_ in his stomach.

"Bottom shelf."

Kurt put a bottle of it in front of him, instructed him to take _small sips_ over an _extended period of time_ , and disappeared. Blaine sipped pitifully at his bottle of sports drink and did his best not to fall back asleep. Today was _not_ the day to be sick. Wes was in hospital; his mum and dad were flying into New York, but they wouldn't be in until later tonight. Blaine's best friend was in hospital and he had chosen now of all times to get sick, because stress-illness was obviously the best and most convenient response to have to a friend's spontaneous heart attack. Would they even let him through the doors like this? As a visitor, not as a patient? And then there was the fact he didn't want to go. Yes, he wanted to be there for Wes, but the entire idea of going anywhere outside of about three metres in any direction of himself at the moment seemed entirely unsurmountable.

And Kurt. Blaine had just gone along with his administrations – frankly, having seen the man literally bring someone back from the dead, there weren't many other people he'd've trusted any better with his care – but that didn't mean it was exactly _fair_ to him. _Come bunk with me, Kurt. You can watch me become hopelessly ill and look after me rather than actually get home._

There was a noise somewhere behind him. Kurt was cleaning up whatever-it-was that had been on the rug (Blaine did not want to imagine), out of earshot, so he took the opportunity to sigh, hand tugging at his curls. His elbow vibrated. Blaine was on the brink of wondering what deadly diseases he could have had involving the killer vibrating elbow when he glanced down – his phone was never set to _vibrate_ , but that's what this phone was doing right now. Its ringtone was _Defying Gravity_. Glinda's part was sung by a voice he vaguely recognised, though he couldn't remember who owned it.

 _INCOMING CALL: Rachel Berry_

Blaine did not know a Rachel Berry. But then, this was not his phone.

"Kurt," he said, except his voice was currently nothing more than a hoarse whisper. Kurt didn't hear him. The phone rang out, once, but that didn't seem to deter Rachel Berry: she called again. Kurt's girlfriend, probably, wondering where he was. It was undoubtable that she'd seen Rita S. Keyta's report. It rang out a second time. Kurt wasn't coming back to get it. 

When it rang again, Blaine picked it up on the second ring.

"'lo?"

"Kurt? Oh my god, you sound horrible!" The girl sounded genuinely concerned. Nice. That was nice. Kurt deserved her.

"'mm not Kurt. Cleaning."

A long silence. "Are you the heart attack guy?"

"Wes. No. Blaine."

An even _longer_ silence. "Bl – Blaine Anderson? The multi-award winning international singer and teenage heartthrob?"

"Mmm." Blaine wondered if he ought to just hang up, now that Rachel knew where Kurt was.

"I – oh, my god, Mr Anderson, it's such an honour to get to talk you – under all the wrong circumstances, of course, but my name is Rachel Berry, Kurt is my best gay –"

Not his girlfriend, then. Blaine smiled a little at this, and decided to excuse himself from wondering why, given his illness.

"I, I mean, my best friend, I'm an aspiring singer - Broadway, of course, but I've won multiple awards for my work in…"

Blaine tuned out. Conveniently, Kurt chose that moment to walk back into the room and freeze, seeing the sunken-eyed boy listening patiently to someone chattering into his ear from _Kurt's phone_. He stared at Blaine and Blaine stared back.

"She called three times," Blaine explained, "Rachel."

Without hesitation, Kurt snatched the phone from him – Blaine did not make any move to protest – and turned away, speaking rapidly into the receiver. If he had been more conscious Blaine might have had the good sense to be at least partially apologetic about having answered Kurt's phone for him, but as it was he only sipped some more of his drink. He had to admit, having some fluid in him was starting to make him feel at least a little bit better. Kurt was having some sort of argument over the phone: Blaine caught the words _sick_ and _home_ and _I can't just_ , and did his best to stop listening to the conversation because it really wasn't his to listen into.

Kurt hung up with a _beep_ , his back to Blaine. For a moment, he didn't move.

"I'm sorry," Blaine said, voice stronger now that it had to demonstrate shame. "I shouldn't have—"

"No," Kurt interrupted. "Don't be, Blaine. She saw the interview, she was probably hoping you would. I'm not angry." Which didn't explain why he'd not turned back around. Blaine was about to ask, too, somewhat less equipped with a filter than he might've been when healthy, but Kurt chose that moment to spin around. He slipped the phone back into his pocket. Blaine barely got a glimpse of an unconvincing smile before Kurt had stalked past him to the pantry.

"Do you want to try to eat something yet? You can have some dry toast. It's easy to keep down."

Blaine said nothing, but Kurt busied himself with locating the bread and finding the toaster, anyway. It seemed he wanted an excuse to be busy, and he would take whatever he could get – Blaine almost asked him what was wrong, except then he was seized by another coughing fit, and Kurt rubbed soothing circles into his back and offered up an empty ice-cream container.

Blaine forgot to ask. Kurt did not volunteer information. The day passed like this, Kurt tending to a sick international celebrity, for several hours – he had phoned the hospital without Blaine's permission to let Wes know he wasn't coming in and forced the young man into bed with a dose of aspirin and an order to rest, and Blaine had accepted that order before his head even hit the pillow. Occasionally the door would open, and Kurt would rouse him to take some pills of some sort. A cool, wet washcloth was laid on his forehead to fight the fever there and was replaced every couple of hours. Somewhere in the depths of the apartment he could hear Kurt playing the piano again, but he sang no words and the medley was not something Blaine could identify during his fleeting moments of consciousness.

What seemed like many hours later, Blaine was being shaken awake.

"Blaine. Blaine, wake up, I need to talk to you." His voice was high-strung and emotional. This alone was the reason why Blaine made the effort to respond.

"Mmm…" He rolled over, wincing against the light the open door and brought with it. He hated open doors. "Kurt?"

"I can't go home today. The airline won't change my ticket. Do you mind -?"

"Stay with me." It wasn't even a consideration. It was _still_ Blaine's friend's fault Kurt had missed his flight, in the first place, and Kurt had voluntarily become Blaine's full-time carer today. He'd cleaned up _vomit_.

Kurt made some quiet gaspy-sobby noise and Blaine realised he had been crying. "Kurt?" he asked, confused – and then: "It doesn't have to be with me, you can stay somewhere—"

"Thank you," Kurt whispered. Evidently, he had thought Blaine was going to kick him out to fend for himself on the streets, which was a thought so ludicrous it could almost have qualified as insulting. Blaine looked at him quizzically.

"Of course. As long as you need, Kurt." Blaine's hand reached out in the darkness, so Kurt met it with his own. They stayed like that for a while, clutching each other's hands in the dark, neither one of them complaining that the hand-holding had probably gone on long enough: the two of them had had a long enough day, as it was. They stayed like that until Blaine fell back asleep, and then until Kurt felt like manoeuvring his fingers out of their entanglement with Blaine's and retreating back to the living room.

He checked his phone, but it had been blowing up with messages for the past 24 hours, and far too many to read – people in Ohio had caught wind of his brush with celebrity, and suddenly everybody wanted to remind him of how they'd been great friends back in highschool. All those hilarious locker-throws and dumpster-tosses. Good times. (Kurt had a better memory than they did.) He shot a quick text to his Dad ("I'm safe, I have a roof over my head, I'll be back as soon as I can") and set about deleting them, one by one, occasionally venturing inside a message if it was from a friend or someone he was curious about or –

 _NEW MESSAGE: KAROFSKY_

Kurt almost dropped the phone. He had not heard from David Karofsky in over a year, and he had liked it that way. He had not heard from David Karofsky and he had _very much_ wanted to keep it that way, after how the other boy had treated him. With an empty swallow, Kurt opened the message.

 **You better keep your mouth shut, fag.**

This was not as bad as he had imagined. This was normal; Karofsky was not trying to get any closer to Kurt because of this brush with fame. He was not trying to seem attractive, or – or looking for anything else, for that matter. Normal. He could handle this.

 _To: Karofsky  
From: Kurt _

**I will if you will.**

This was the deal. Neither of them said anything. It was a one-off, or so Karofsky insisted, and it would never happen again, and if Kurt worked out a deal with him then it would help to make it sound even slightly consensual when he thought about it. His Dad's heart wouldn't be able to take the news, at the very least. That was a good enough reason to keep it quiet, let alone keeping Karofsky comfortably in the closet.

Kurt finished deleting the rest of his messaged and turned his phone off, not waiting for an answer. He got in the shower and scrubbed his skin until it was raw. Entirely by way of the fact he didn't particularly want to be in a bed, or asleep, or anywhere in the end of the apartment that contained another man (no offense to Blaine), he ended up falling asleep at 2:42AM on the couch, buried under the same blanket he'd put there the night before.

He did not sleep soundly that night.

 **A/N: Ahhhh, so that one took a while to write. Sorry for the wait! I went on a day-trip to Sydney yesterday and was struck by inspiration, at last. X_X Thanks for all of the reviews! Also I realise things aren't really romancing-ing on up between these two yet but hey, they only met a day and a half ago. I promise there's more Klaine on the way c:**

 **I should be able to update before uni starts back up again, but on the off-chance I'm not, I'll see you lot on the other side. Look after yourselves!**


End file.
